The Deadly Seven
by Shadow of One
Summary: Seven souls, seven sins, seven hunters on a quest for revenge in the old west against the yellow eyed demon who wronged them.
1. SLOTH

I don't own Supernatural. This is just my interpretation of how it would be in the old west, enjoy!

* * *

Noah Carpenter was a young man of around 23. He was taller than most men and definitively slimmer as well. Noah had procured a rather large mop of sandy blonde hair on his head, as well as some peach fuzz on his face to match. His hazel eyes were often glazed over as if he had not gotten enough rest. But if there was one thing in the world Noah Carpenter loved more than warm bed to sleep in, it would have been the sleep he gained in that bed. In fact, Noah was notorious for being lazy and sleeping when it was uncalled for.

Noah Carpenter was currently sleeping in the cool shade of a giant tree which was split in two at the center by a bolt of lightning, safe away from the hot afternoon sun on a hill overlooking the farm at which he was currently staying.

"Hey boy," came the voice of the old man, "you told me that you was gonna work for all them hot meals, and the bed we gave you. You weren't lyin' to me, now were ya boy?"

Noah listened to the grumblings of the older gentleman who was kicking the sole of his boot every time he said the word "you". Lifting the brim of his hat from overtop of his eyes, Noah squinted at the shadowy figure of the man in front of him.

"Shoot, no," yawned Noah, "I a'int never lied to you old man, I was just catching a quick nap is all."

"Yeah, yeah, a quick nap…" grouched the old man, "boy, you are lazier than a dog on a hot day- you understand!"

"Calm down old timer," shrugged Noah, "I'll get to work, no worry. So, what is it you need me to do exactly?"

The young man stiffly rose to his feet, taking his time to stretch every limb he could, and yawning rather loudly in the direction of the old man a few more times.

"What you can do is take the herd out to pasture, seein' as you missed out on all of the other chores due to your 'nap'," snapped the old man.

"Alright, alright," yawned Noah once more, "Consider it done, old man."

Noah sauntered down the hill still feeling groggy from his nap. It had been a wonderful nap. On the list of naps he had ever taken, it was definitely high on the scale of ones he had never wanted to wake from. Yet here he was, woken from his nap, and being forced to do a job he never wanted. He climbed into his saddle and stroked the cream splotched horse's neck a few times, allowing himself another yawn.

He moved his horse towards the herd, being that there were only seven or eight cows in this particular herd, he assumed he could handle them by himself by simply guiding them from the back. Noah called out for them to get a move on and the cows started to cling together like frightened children as they were moved out towards the open pastures. Clouds thundered in the distance. Noah raised the brim of his hat and squinted at the sun. It definitely looked like rain was coming, and fast too.

Noah started moving the herd faster and over the rustle of the stamping hooves he thought he could hear someone shouting in the distance, but he was too lazy to take the effort to turn around and see who it could be.

* * *

The rain had come in faster than expected, but that wasn't woke Noah from his nap, it was the thunder which brought him out of his coma-like trance. He had brought the herd out to pasture and found himself a nice boulder on which to lean his back and return to sweet sleep, as he had tipped the brim of his hat down over his eyes. Now Noah was frantic, seeing that the rain was coming down in torrents and the cows were scattered.

The cream splotched horse which Noah rode was neighing and kicking frantically as though it were being attacked and Noah, for a moment, considered bringing the herd in on foot, in case he broke his neck on the bucking horse. However, as he walked over the horse began to calm down, and climbing into his saddle he realized he could barely see where the cows were to begin with through the dark and the rain which drenched Noah to the bone with its cold.

Noah steered his horse in the direction of where the cows were when he last saw them, although that could have been hours ago, Noah wasn't really sure how long he had slept. However, as Noah neared the area he thought he could smell something foul through the humid rain. It was then that he came upon the mutilated corpses of two cows: they had been disemboweled, split from the neck to their utters. Noah held his bandana over his mouth to block to the now obvious stench and looked around. He didn't see any poachers in the area, but through the rain it was hard to see at all. And since when did poachers kill cows? They usually just stole and sold them.

Something in Noah's gut told him something was definitely wrong. The usual sleepy Noah was now on high alert as he drew his double barrel revolver and cocked the hammer back, looking in all directions trying to find the culprit. Noah knew now, he was being watched. Then, alarmingly close to Noah's left side, he heard footsteps in the grass. He wheeled his horse around and held the revolver in the direction of the footsteps.

"Who's there!" Noah demanded of the darkness. There was no reply.

"Answer me dammit, are you the one who's responsible for this!" Noah again demanded. Yet again, there was no answer. It was then that Noah realized the footsteps had abruptly stopped when he had spoken.

"Who me?" came a disjointed voice.

Noah spun to his right to see a pair of glowing yellow eyes piercing straight into his own.

" 'Cause if you're talking to me, then the answer to your question is yes, I did this." The man smiled with teeth so white they looked like pearls in the dark and rain.

Noah brought up the revolver and fired off three bullets straight at the man with the yellow eyes. Hearing the resounding splats of bullet meeting flesh, Noah felt reassured that he was now safe from this man with crazy eyes.

"Sonny," sighed the man, rain dripping from his short white hair, "you shouldn't play with guns."

With that, Noah's revolver was ripped from his hands, as if by unseen forces and flew in the outstretched palm of the man. Noah's horse had again started bucking in fear, and Noah himself was having trouble controlling the bile which had risen in his throat. When the horse reared up again the man flicked his hand in an upward motion and Noah heard the tearing of flesh and could smell the horse's intestines as they spilled onto the ground and Noah was flung from his horse.

There was a crack as Noah's leg broke from the fall and he cried out in pain. Noah knew that his only chance to survive was to crawl for his life, so he started in the direction of the house. Although, in the back of his mind, he knew it was to no avail. The footsteps of the man were right alongside him as he crawled.

"What's the rush?" asked the yellow eyed man, "why don't you rest a little while."

With that, the man kicked Noah's shoulder so that Noah rolled over onto his back, and dug his spur into Noah's ribs. Pain exploded, and the sleepy young man cried out in agony and protest. The spur removed itself from Noah's side and he felt the rain lighten up as he noticed the man standing over him was slightly shielding him from the downpour. Noah couldn't help but take notice that the man was not armed. Not even with a knife. How had he killed his horse then?

"Who are you?" Noah coughed in pain.

"Me? I'm nobody special," smiled the man, "but you, partner, are someone quite special. You are, a prototype."

Before Noah could question the man further he heard a hissing noise from the wound in his ribs, and soon he felt a burning hotter than fire in his side as he screamed out in pain, louder than he had ever screamed. And then the world went black.

* * *

Noah stared out over the open plains from underneath the shade of the tree split down the center by the lightning bolt. The brim of his hat was up, yet his eyes were still glazed over. It had been a week since Noah last slept, and if he had known that the last time he had lost consciousness was the last time he would sleep for the rest of his life, he would have savored it more.

The man with the yellow eyes had cursed him to never sleep again.

He had even branded him.

Noah unbuttoned his dress shirt to look at the mark once more, and there it was, branded into his skin on the right side near his ribs:

SLOTH

Noah looked back to the horizon. He would find that demon man, and he would kill him.

And then he would sleep.


	2. LUST

The night air was heavy and humid in the town of Raven Song. The moon was full and the stars were just barely visible through the lamplight which illuminated the dirt streets of the newly constructed town. Not too many people lived there yet, in fact, a sheriff hadn't even been elected yet, so order was kept by the people of which there was a decent amount. One of the candidates for the sheriff's position though, was Connor Bateman.

Connor was a very young man by rights, aging only around 21. He was around the average height of any other man, and he had a muscular build having worked on a farm for a good portion of his life. Connor was a pretty good shot with his pistol, and had a rather good sense of right and wrong, which made him more eligible to be sheriff than most other men in town.

What Connor didn't have a sense of, was how to control his urges. He was a man with needs, in a town full of beautiful women. And when the beautiful women weren't available, there were always the whores. Now, it wasn't as though any of these women were unwilling, in truth, most of them threw themselves at Connor- being that he was the most handsome man in town. His long brown locks pulled themselves away from his face in curtains as if presenting his carved features to the world. His light brown eyes took in everything he saw, from the curve of a woman's bosom, to the itching fingers near the revolver of the man she was with.

Connor Bateman strode through the middle of the street on this heavy and humid night in the town of Raven Song, looking for a woman who would be more than willing to lose a couple hours of sleep with him. Connor walked in the middle of the street so that he might be able to hear a call from a window or doorway better that way, when the opportunity presented herself. Walking with an arrogant swagger, Connor mulled over the way his name sounded with the title "Sheriff" in front of it. "Sheriff" Connor Bateman. He liked it. He would like to hear the ladies say it even more though.

"Howdy Sheriff," came an almost mind-reading, seductive tone from his right.

Connor stopped mid stride, and smiled to himself as he pretended to inspect the toe of his boot. With thumbs in his pockets he turned to face the woman who had just initiated the best night of her life.

"Howdy Miss," he replied as he turned his eyes on the woman, feasting on her appearance, "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm no sheriff yet, the election is tomorrow."

The woman was definitely still in her prime, wearing a red dress with the straps falling down on her shoulders, and a sash tied tightly around her waist to display her figure.

"Oh, there's no disappointment Sheriff," she cooed, "I just figured that since there a'int no better man in this town than you, I could congratulate you on gettin' the job a little early."

She swayed a little in the doorway while she spoke, trying her best to invite him in with her body language. Connor Bateman didn't need to be invited twice. He started walking slowly toward the doorway, to make her agonize with the wait of his arrival.

"Well Miss, what sort of congratulatin' did you have in mind?" Connor asked with a smile.

The young woman caught Connor's hand by the fingertips and started trailing him inside the house.

"Why don't you follow me inside, and I'll show you," purred the young woman.

Somewhere in the back of his mind Connor Bateman felt something wasn't quite right, and although the motions he was following through on were somewhat routine (albeit it was usually a different woman every time) he couldn't help but feel a certain type of dread. Connor tried to focus on the luscious brown hair which tumbled down in front of him, and the curve of the waist which enticed him…

Her eyes. There had been something about her eyes.

Connor grabbed the woman's forearm and spun her around to face him so that he might get a closer look at her eyes. The woman spun with a look of surprise and excitement on her face to stare at the young man.

"My, my Sheriff, someone is a little eager," but her playful tone caught when she saw the look on Connor's face, and the pistol in his hand. Connor cocked the hammer back.

"Who are you?" he questioned.

"When you ask questions, you lose the fun Sheriff, you know that," she resumed her playful coy.

Connor fired a shot into the ceiling. It was a warning. Connor definitely knew something was wrong now.

"No games," he cocked the hammer back again, "who are you?"

The young woman sighed as she stared into his eyes.

"You cowboys aren't all as dumb as you look."

Her eyes flared red as blood as she caught hold of the hand which gripped her forearm. She flung Connor Bateman through the door to which she was leading him. Connor didn't know how to react, not to the red eyes, or to the superhuman strength that a _woman_ possessed. Connor did know how to react, however, to the massive internal pain that he was feeling, and the blood dripping from his mouth, with a scream and with terror.

The woman took her time walking into the moonlit room, and when she finally stood over the broken form of Connor Bateman, she looked not in the direction of the young man, but towards the corner of the room.

"He makes quite an entrance," chuckled a raspy voice.

Connor attempted to turn his head in the direction of the voice but he felt paralyzed from the pain that he had sustained from his flight. The woman knelt down in front of him, and ripped open his shirt, the act though was not something exciting to Connor anymore.

"He's all yours boss," cooed the young woman.

"Thanks, darlin'." Confirmed the voice.

A pair of striking yellow eyes hovered over Connor Bateman in the darkness, and a set of shinning white teeth gleamed in the moonlight. Connor couldn't speak, and if he could have he wasn't sure what he would have said.

"Sheriff Connor Bateman," came the raspy voice from above.

Connor no longer liked the way the title sounded.

"Well Sheriff, I hate to tell you, but this will sting a bit," sighed the voice.

Connor thought he saw a match ignite in the man's hand, and he tried to scream as the fire came closer to his torso, but he realized his voice was being suppressed. His eyes darted about wildly until settling on the young woman who he realized must be the one keeping him quiet. It was then that Connor felt the worst pain he'd ever received in his entire life. The very flesh felt like it was being melted away from his ribs, and he heard a discernable hissing noise, as darkness clawed at the edge of his vision, until his conscious mind gave way to sleep.

* * *

Ex-Sheriff Connor Bateman wandered through the desert on his horse. He had been stripped of his title and ejected from the town after the fourth woman he'd consummated with had died of poisoning. The poison in their system was from Connor.

Connor had woken the day after his incident feeling like a new man, with the pain gone, and the only reminder of the night being his own memory and the brand which the stranger with the yellow eyes had given him. He had received the position of Sheriff as predicted, and immediately went to celebrate at his favorite brothel. A day later, the woman he had celebrated with died a slow, agonizing death from poison. Connor had vowed to find the bastard who had poisoned her, and keep all the townspeople safe.

After the fourth woman died, not only did Sheriff Connor realize that it was his own doing, but so did the rest of the town. Ex-Sheriff Connor Bateman barely escaped with his life.

Now he stared off into the horizon, wondering where the man with the yellow eyes could be. It didn't matter where he was, Connor would find him, and he would kill him.

Ex-Sheriff Connor Bateman rubbed the sore spot where the man had branded him, and unbuttoned his shirt to get a better look at the word burned into his skin:

LUST

Ex-Sheriff Connor Bateman vowed that he would not rest until he found the man with the yellow eyes who did this to him, and killed him.

And then, he would celebrate.


	3. GLUTTONY

For the record, i'm trying to get through introducing the characters as fast as I can, so thanks for hanging in there!

* * *

Growing up in a family where his father owned a railroad company could have been the easiest life that Owen Locksmith ever had. Fortunately for him, it was the life he did have. Most of Owens days consisted of eating, in fact, to any passerby or to someone who did not know Owen, it seemed like the young man was always snacking on something. This was, perhaps, the cause of Owen's slightly larger appearance than the other boys in town.

Now Owen had always been a little chubbier than most due to his dietary concerns. As he grew up, and his metabolism started to fail him, he gained a considerable amount of weight before anyone recommended that he started eating right. So, Owen tried the greens and vegetables and decided they were just as much food as anything else. The young man, however, continued to remain on the heavy side since he could not stop his ravenous consuming of his favorite meal: venison.

Owen even hunted the deer for his own venison, from his front porch. The young man would sit in a rocking chair with a rolling block rifle and scan the fields for any unsuspecting deer in the distance (all the while snacking on whatever the chefs of his house brought him) and would fire when any came into range. Owen had become arguably the best shot in town with a rifle.

On this particular day, Owen was doing just that. Sitting in his rocking chair, the young man of about 24 concentrated into the scope of the rifle, his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth in concentration, with just a little bit of drool dripping down the side of his chin. He had seen the sweet little doe prancing in the distance, and stuffing the rest of the chicken he was eating into his mouth, he had picked up his rifle with greasy hands and made ready to consume another animal to his seemingly never-ending hunger.

It was routine, Owen held the crosshairs a little ahead of where he thought the deer would prance unknowingly. And when the doe finally did prance in between the crosshairs, a hungry Owen pulled the trigger, felling the deer, and sent his rocking chair a-rocking with the force of the shot. Owen picked up a little bell on the floor to his left (with some small difficulty) and rung the bell twice. The young man heard the front door open behind him as an older butler walked out, squinting into the sunlight.

"Something you need, Master Owen?" the man questioned wearily.

"You bet," Owen growled, "I just killed me another deer, send out one of the servants to pick it up, and have it ready for dinner, I'm starving."

The butler glanced briefly at the half eaten meal on the floor beside the young man, but knew not to question the boy's appetite, it had proved resilient before.

"Owen!" A shrill voice called.

"Yes, Mama?" Owen called back.

The front door opened again, being held open by the butler for the slightly larger Mrs. Locksmith, who had also grown accustomed to the lavish, and lazy lifestyle the Locksmith's now enjoyed thanks to the railroad.

"Owen, my darling," smiled the robust woman, hugging her son around the neck (as her arms most likely wouldn't have fit around any other part of him), "I need you to be a dear and run into town to pick up a few things for dinner."

"But Mama," Owen groaned loudly, "I just shot dinner! Tell the servants to go pick up the doe, and then go into town themselves!"

"Owen Locksmith," Mrs. Locksmith said very curtly, "you don't get enough exercise young man, if you continue on carrying out your days this way, then I'm afraid you won't outlive your father and myself, and I don't have the strength to bury my own baby in the ground!"

Soft whimpering sound came from the large woman as she walked away from the rocking chair. Owen groaned again.

"Fine Mama, I'll go into town, what do you need?"

"Wonderful!" said a suddenly very cheerful Mrs. Locksmith, "we are going to need some vegetables to prepare with the venison, as well as some dessert for after dinner!"

Owen suddenly didn't feel like he was being punished anymore.

"And I get to pick the dessert?" Owen asked excitedly.

"Oh, of course my strong little man," Mrs. Locksmith cooed while pinching her son's cheek.

"Very well then," said Owen with finality, "we should be off immediately!"

The heavy young man once again picked up the bell and rung it twice. The butler sighed, as he had never left the front porch.

"Yes, Master Owen?" he asked once more.

"Prepare the coach immediately!" said the excited Owen.

"Yes, Master Owen," the butler said woodenly.

Owen attempted several times to get out of his rocking chair before he was at last successful, and grabbing his hat off of the railing of the porch he covered up the thin blond hair on top of his head. When the coach finally pulled around to the front of the house Owen, again, had some trouble getting up into the passenger seat, but upon his success, he was off to town to find the dessert of his choosing- as he had completely forgotten he was supposed to buy vegetables as well.

* * *

It was dark by the time Owen returned with the coach and the house was illuminated by its many lamps, and from the light of the dinning room inside. Owen hurried off the coach (almost falling in the process) and proceeded to run inside. As he had said multiple times over the course of one trip to town and back: he was starving.

Throwing open the front door Owen hurried into the dinning room on his left and sat down at one end of the absurdly long table. Owen's place was already set and so were his mother and father's but they were not at the table.

"Mama, Pa!" called Owen. There was no response.

"Mama, Pa, I'm starving, get down here so I can eat!"

Again, there was only silence.

Owen stared at his place, the venison was steaming and dripped with all the sauces he loved. The heavy young man's mouth watered as he stared at the meal, although his stomach did no growling.

"Alright," Owen muttered to himself, "guess I'm gonna have to start without them."

The young man picked up his napkin and tied it around his neck and picking up his fork and knife he began to cut into the meal, making disgusting and unappetizing sounds as he consumed the meat with fervor.

"You didn't say grace." Rasped a voice from the other end of the table.

Owen nearly choked on the half chewed piece of meat he had been inhaling at the moment, as he looked up to see a man with yellow eyes in a butler uniform sitting at the other end of the table. Hot anger flashed through Owen.

"Who do you think you are telling me I didn't say grace and sittin' at my table? You're just a butler! Get back to work!" Owen spat as he went back to working on his meal.

There was a sigh from the other end of the table as Owen looked up to see the yellow eyed man shaking his head back and forth.

"Maybe this time, I'll get it right," chuckled the yellow eyed man. As he stood Owen's chair flew backwards, sending the young man tumbling over into the wall. The heavy young man could only watch in terror as the man walked over to his slumped over figure against the wall. The man's face wrinkled in disgust.

"Wipe your mouth," he snapped.

Owen fumbled with his napkin to do so.

"Good," commented the man, "Now, open up your shirt, or I'll have to do it for you."

Owen wondered what kind of sick man this was as he fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. For the life of him, it seemed as if the fear he was feeling had wiped his memory clean of how to unbutton a shirt. Owen could feel his panic rising, his breathing was faster and more labored, and he was beginning to feel a terrible pain in his chest.

"Oh great," muttered the yellow eyed man as Owen fell over on his side. He had passed out from the heart attack he was having.

* * *

When Owen awoke the first thing he noticed was that he was alive. The second, was that he was hungry. Hungrier than he had ever been in his life. He desperately wished for some venison. Owen thought he felt a sharp pain in his right side, but he was still fallen over on the floor and couldn't get a better look.

"Damn…wrong again," rasped the voice of the yellow eyed man.

Owen yelped as he heard the voice, but suddenly the man's presence was gone. The young man made an effort to sit up and look in the direction, and saw that the man was truly gone. He sighed deeply in relief. And then realized that the venison he had never gotten to finish was still on the table. It probably would have been cold by now, but Owen was too hungry to care.

As he stood and walked over the food, he began cramming it into his face, eating as much as he could in as little time as possible. It was then that the heavy young man knew something was wrong. For all the food that he ate, the hunger didn't go away. Owen spent the rest of the afternoon eating and eating until he threw up, but still the horrible pain of starvation didn't go away.

Owen had eventually checked his right side to see what the man had done to him, and there, branded into his skin was the single word:

GLUTTONY

The heavy young man vowed that he would hunt down that demon man, and he would kill him with his own rifle, or any other means necessary.

And once he was dead: Owen would eat until his hunger was satisfied, and then eat some more.


	4. GREED

As most of you know- I don't own Supernatural. Also, sorry for taking so long to get these chapters done.

* * *

The backroom of the brothel was dimly lit by a few lanterns and a chandelier hanging overtop the poker table, where five men were currently seated. Four of the five men were fairing rather poorly during this game, while one man was making off exceptionally well. This man's name was William Miner. Nobody at the table knew his name though, as they had all rambled in and had spoken very little to one another as they took their places at the green felt table stained with assorted beverages. If they had known his name though, then perhaps they would have thought twice about playing this particular game of poker. Perhaps they would have thought twice about playing with this man at their table. Perhaps they would have pulled out their guns and shot him on the spot.

William Miner was, perhaps, one of the most famous gamblers in the West. Although he was still a rising star due to his age of 25, he had certainly made progress. He would drift from town to town, looking for the hottest spots in gambling. For William, it didn't matter what the game was because he always had lady luck on his side. Liar's Dice, blackjack, poker, William always took home the most money.

Perhaps this was the explanation of why William had an obsession with it.

The game that was currently being played at the table was going rather favorably for William. He had almost knocked out two of the four remaining players as they were down to their last chips. All Will needed was one good hand, and it would come to him. Raking in his winnings from the round Will waited patiently, surveying the other players from under the brim of his hat, his blue eyes watching every slight facial twitch of the men at the table around him. Every single fidget. Every bead of sweat. William Miner knew he had this game all wrapped up as he started dealing cards to the men.

The loud sound of the double hinged doors swinging open being opened behind William made the men at the table jump. A surly figure strolled into the room wearing his hat brim down over his face. William Miner set down the deck of cards and removed his hat to run a hand through his short blond hair.

"Mind if I sit in for a round Gents?" came a raspy voice from the man who had just entered. He hovered near the empty seat across the table from William.

Nobody looked up from the table to see the man's face, but there were grunts of compliance. The man slid the chair back across the floor and sat down lightly. Putting his hat back on William started dealing two cards to each man at the table, and without the notice of any man, dealt himself two cards from the bottom of the deck.

There was silence as the men surveyed their cards and gauged their chances of success. William Miner placed two chips on the table in front of him, and the familiar clink of chips clacking against one another as they were set down echoed across the table. All had placed chips except the man across from William who sat silently inspecting the green felt from underneath the brim of his hat. He hadn't even touched his cards.

"Ahem," the man coughed and flashed a smile to nobody in particular, but to himself as if he'd remembered something quite comical, "Now, I don't know about you gents, but I'd rather not play a game where I was being cheated, would you?"

The men around the table looked up at the stranger, who did not make eye contact with any of them, but rather continued to chuckle to himself and stare through the table. He had the men's attention. He certainly had William Miner's. Will felt sweat drip down the back of his right ear and he struggled profusely to stare at his own cards, consequently, the winning cards he needed. He wasn't sure how the man had caught him, as he had long ago perfected the slight of hand needed to steal the prize winning cards from the bottom of a deck. But the man had caught him nonetheless.

William let his hand fall to his left side nonchalantly, draping the arm over the back of his chair, but letting none see that he was checking to make sure his revolver was clear in his holster, lest it come down to a gunfight.

The silence in the room was audible.

"What're you talkin' about mister?" One of the men to Will's left piped up.

"I'm so glad you asked my boy," the stranger laughed again, "you see, our friend William Miner over there, yes, William Miner, has undoubtedly dealt himself some lucky cards from the bottom of our truly unforgiving deck."

Hands shot to revolvers and the crack of hammers being pulled back and chairs scraping as men stood up to avenge their losses filled the silence that had once hung in the room like ghostly cobwebs. The man's smile turned into a frown.

"But he's not the one cheating here."

Confusion swept through the men as they pivoted to see what the stranger had to say next.

"I am, because I happen to be pretty good at seeing through other people's cards."

The brim of the man's hat was raised to reveal piercing yellow eyes, and whether out of the primal fear of man or the shock of such a turn of events, the men all aimed their weapons at the stranger and fired.

Four men hit the floor around the table- dead. Their guns had all backfired on them as they pulled the trigger, simultaneously causing the bullet to backfire into their foreheads.

William Miner was sweating visibly now. He was sweating more than he ever had in his lifetime. He pulled out his gun and aimed it at the man with the yellow eyes which had never gazed any other direction than William himself once they were revealed.

With one eyebrow raised the man sighed.

"Come now William, I thought you'd have a little more sense than that."

William Miner didn't know what to do; panic coursed through his veins as he gingerly set his gun on the table.

"There's a good boy," chuckled the man, "Now William, I'm here to make you a proposition."

"I reckon I wouldn't want to even consider any sort of proposition someone like you would give me," William stated, barely able to find his voice.

"Haha! You've got some back bone William, I'll give you that. But let's see if you've got any balls, shall we?"

"Are you the Devil, mister?"

"The Devil? Me? No, although I'd like to think of us as friends," the man smiled.

"Well…it seems like you aren't giving me much of a choice but to accept whatever proposition you've got, mister…so why don't you go on and tell me what it is."

"Not true William! I'm giving you a choice: lets play a hand of poker, if you win- you get away scot-free and you'll never hear from me again. And, I'll throw in a million dollars- U.S. of course." The man was still smiling.

"A million dollars…" William Miner didn't think the deal sounded too bad, but he had to ask, "And if you win?"

"Well…I hadn't really thought about it…how about you help me with a little experiment."

"An experiment?"

"Details, details, my boy. Now tell me, are you in or out?" The man held out his hand across the table, the grin never leaving his face.

"For a million dollars mister…shoot, I reckon I have to say yes."

William grabbed the man's hand and shook it firmly. The hand was cold as death itself and William would have regretted the decision almost immediately, had there not been the promise of a million dollars.

The game progressed, with the yellow eyed man almost immediately being revealed as the victor.

William Miner felt his heart leap into his throat and felt his bowels tighten as he realized that his night, lady luck was not with him.

"Looks like the cards favor me tonight, my boy," smiled the yellow eyed man.

William Miner stared fixedly in horror at the man, and at the prospect of what might happen to him. All of them horrific and terrible.

"Sleep tight!" Said the yellow eyed stranger as he snapped his fingers.

* * *

If you had asked William Miner what it was like to be deprived of the thing you love the most before his incident with the stranger, he would have simply laughed and said that there was plenty enough in the world that he would never have to worry about that problem.

If you had asked him after- he would have said it was the worst pain in the world he had ever felt, literally and figuratively.

William Miner's hands were now covered with scars and seared flesh from trying to hold the thing he held most dear in his life- money. It burned him nearly to the bone to hold it. Much like the burn which he had found on his side the next morning after the encounter with the stranger:

GREED

William swore an oath the first day he burned his hand. He swore he would kill the demon man for separating him from his true love. He would kill him, and then loot his body, and horde whatever money the man had for the rest of his days. He vowed he would take it out of a box and cradle it each morning- before he took his regular money bath each day.

* * *

Spoiler Alert: Next chapter involves an ancestor of some of our favorite people in the Supernatural series...


End file.
